Thunder God Read online

  To fight the Emperor’s wars, we sailed aboard his Black Sea ships, and voyaged out across the burning blue Mediterranean. We travelled through the desert of the Abbasids and slept in the coppery sand, wrapped in our capes to ward off the night chill, waiting for the sky to turn the colour of our eyes.

  In each new place, Halfdan would find something to mark his journey – sometimes a belt, sometimes a shield, once a helmet stolen from the dust-dry corpse of a Roman legionnaire, who we found buried under a shallow pile of stones at a dried-up oasis in the desert. His chest had caved in like the roof of an abandoned house. Some grey and pasty scraps of flesh remained upon the forehead and the hands, which lay folded on his chest. The hair had slid away from the top of the skull, leaving the chalkiness of bones on which a large black scorpion had made its nest.

  The most prized of all Halfdan’s possessions he acquired when we were campaigning against the Gotul tribesmen in the mountainous region of Arak, a fight which cost us almost half our number. Retreating across a frozen plateau, we came across a long-dead animal the likes of which none of us had seen before. It was a kind of elephant, but with long, matted hair and huge tusks that curved around in front of the animal’s face. The creature must have been attacked but escaped to die with a spear still piercing its flank. The flesh had dried as hard as rock and the shaft of the spear had rotted away, but the bronze spear-head remained preserved inside. Its long point was shaped like a narrow tear-drop with strange circles carved into the metal. Halfdan gouged it out and named the weapon Gungnir, after Odin’s own spear, which never missed its mark.

  In that place, we had come to the edge of the world. Foul-smelling steam rose from open sores in the ground and yellow blooms of sulphur patched the earth, as on the mottled skin of corpses left unburied.

  What lay beyond, in the endless emptiness of rolling hills and stunted trees, filled us all with wordless terror, because of what had happened to a group of Norsemen who had set out across these plains some years before. They were led by a Swede named Ingvar. Hundreds came along, sailing in a great fleet across the Baltic, down the Dnieper, across the Black and Caspian seas, rolling their ships on logs or hauling them overland on huge carts, even as far as the sea of Aral. From there, Ingvar and his men set out on foot. Somewhere in that emptiness, they disappeared. Afew made it back. Barely a handful of men. One of the survivors was Halfdan. What had happened to them, and who or what had scythed them down, Halfdan either would not say or could not recall. The horror of it stood like a wall around his memories.

  The mystery surrounding this disaster gave each Norseman room to shape his own worst nightmare in his head. This was why Halfdan had been favoured by Kalf and his crew, just as he was by the Varangians, as a man who had survived what they feared they could not. But, having reached this place a second time, Halfdan refused to go on, despite the Emperor’s orders to continue.

  Fear sifted through our ranks. It was as if some angry presence walked among us, breathing the dust of old graves in our faces and wanting to know our business here. This was the only time we ever retreated.

  Months later, we returned to Miklagard. We rode through the streets, trailing the riderless horses of our dead. People came out of their houses and counted our losses on their fingers as we went by.

  In many dreams to come, I would recall the precise balance of wonder and fear I felt at that moment, out on the wastelands of Arak. It was as if a part of me would never leave that desolate ground and would always be standing there, trying to find the courage to go forward into the unknown.

  *

  My service to Halfdan ended when he was killed in a fight near Nicomedia.

  We had been escorting the Emperor home after a month-long visit to Trebizond. We were halted in a steep and rocky gorge by about forty men, whose tribe was unknown to us, as was the reason for their attack. They blocked our passage and sent down a drizzle of arrows from their hiding places behind boulders and crooked trees which clung to the crumbling slope. The arrows whistled as they fell among us, now and then striking our shields with a clack of iron against wood. Turning, we saw that our exit from the gorge had now been blocked as well.

  These strangers howled and swung their swords above their heads, sharpened edges gleaming in the sun. Others lined the exit from the pass, bent down on one knee and holding out double-bladed spears, one pointing forward and another pointing down. This would gut the horses if we galloped through their ranks. They assumed that we would have to try or face being whittled away by arrows in that cold-shadowed gorge.

  The enemy looked surprised when we dismounted and began our advance on foot. No one had told them that the Varangian never fight on horseback.

  I hung back in a second line with the other servants as well as one Varangian, a monstrous Celt named Cabal, whose wild hair and shaggy beard made him appear more beast than man. He came from the land of the Cymraig and stood taller than all but a few Varangian. His chest was banded in muscle, with a saddlebag of fat resting on each hip. Cabal had drunk bad wine the night before and was too sick to fight.

  The Emperor also stayed behind with the horses. He was dressed as a servant, a precaution he always took when we travelled. He muttered curses at the strangers, while others tried to control the nervous animals.

  My task was to keep Halfdan always in my sight. He carried his axe and shield and had left me with his sword, to bring to him if it was needed.

  Ever since the first time I had taken part in a fight, I was surprised at how little fear I felt when things began to move. Later, I knew, I would suffer from dreams patched together out of near-misses and the sight of blood, the shrill screams of half-butchered men, the coughing of those with gut wounds, and the hopeless heavy breathing of men whose skulls were shattered. But now I had other things to think about as I ran forward through the dust, determined not to lose track of Halfdan.

  I heard a shout from the rocks and watched a man stand up from his hiding place. His face was tattooed with two black horns, which hooked down under his chin. With a long spear raised above his head, he signalled his men to close in.

  When they did not move, he shouted and waved the spear over his head. Silver bangles on his arm winked in the sunlight, which had begun to slide in a honey-coloured wave down the face of the gorge.

  No matter what he shouted at them, his men would not advance. Rage and fear blurred on his painted face and he spat in their direction before stepping back into the shadows.

  We moved slowly at first, then began a slow run and finally, raising axes and swords above our heads, rushed towards them with a howl that echoed through the gorge. The sound doubled and redoubled until it seemed as if a world of men were emptying their lungs.

  The line of strangers toppled backwards, jolted by the sound of our shouts. They rose from their crouching, barbed spears clumsy in their sweating hands.

  The Varangian line poured over them, swathed in dust. Armour crashed and bodies slammed the ground. Axes swung above the crowd, followed by the butchering thump as they struck home. One of their men ran from the cloud, empty-handed, eyes rolled round to white, blind in a seizure of fear. He was almost at our second line before he saw us through the sweat and dust which clouded his vision, and realised he was running the wrong way. Before he had even skidded to a stop, Cabal barged forward through our ranks. His skin was sunblotched and grey from fever-sweat, eyes narrowed almost shut. He swung his shield up in an arc, and the iron rim of the shield caught the running man just beneath his right ear. The blow lifted him off his feet and threw him back into the dust.

  A blue-flighted arrow struck the ground in front of me, sending up a puff of powdery earth. Even though I had been looking at the place where it fell, I had not seen it strike. It just suddenly appeared. The arrow looked so harmless, with its little bundle of feathers neatly tied at the end, more like a toy than a weapon.

  We moved through the bodies. Weapons were scattered on the ground. I stepped over a Varangian, who lay fac
e down on top of the man he had killed. There was a thin line of red which ran exactly down the parting in his double-braided hair. I found myself staring at this peculiar symmetry and had just raised my head when I saw Halfdan walk back through the dust.

  He was holding the broken handle of his axe, which he threw away when he caught sight of me. His shield was also missing, and I could see the bright lines of knife cuts across the dull chain-mail on his chest. He held out his hand for the sword.

  I lunged forward and, as I ran, I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye. I did not even have time to recognise it as the shape of a person. It seemed to be flying through the air towards me. Without thinking, I swung the sword out from under my left arm. The wood and metal scabbard flew off and struck what I now saw was a man who had crawled up from behind a boulder and was jumping down upon me. The scabbard caught him in the throat. His mouth locked open. He fell hard on his back and skidded to a stop in front of me.

  The first thing I noticed about the man was that he was barefoot. The soles of his feet were black with dirt, as if he had been walking in ashes. He had earrings in both ears and his hair was dark and shaggy like the pelt of a bear. He wore a loose brown tunic, which had torn when he hit the ground, baring his chest.

  I waited for him to get up, but he did not move. Dust swirled around me. The taste of it clung to the roof of my mouth and powdered my throat. Bodies shifted in the peppery air. All around me was the sour, leathery smell of the sweat of frightened men and animals.

  It was then that I heard the high-pitched wail of a wounded horse and turned to see that one of them had been hit by an arrow. There were already two arrows embedded in its saddle, but this third arrow had struck the horse’s neck. The other animals reared up and bolted towards the entrance of the gorge, leaving the Emperor and his servant standing in the open. The horse which had been hit went down on its front legs and then tipped sideways onto the ground.

  Now I watched the tattooed man come scrambling down the slope, sword in hand, heading for the Emperor.

  ‘Go!’ shouted Halfdan, his bright blue eyes piercing the dust. He pointed at the man.

  Obediently, I turned back, the weight of Halfdan’s sword unbalancing me as I sprinted towards the Emperor, who had begun to climb the steep slope at the other side of the gorge, along with one of his servants. They moved with unbearable slowness, pawing their way from boulder to boulder, grabbing at tufts of grass which came away in their hands.

  In a few strides, the tattooed man crossed the flat space at the bottom of the gorge. He began climbing up the other side, where the Emperor and his servant were still struggling forward. Sunlight filled the valley now, blinking off the curved blade of his sword.

  Over the swish of air through my burning lungs, I heard the soft swipes of my sandalled feet on the ground. Loose stones and earth tumbled down around me as I climbed after the tattooed man. My eyes filled with grit. The sword clanked awkwardly against stones as I moved, and the pain of climbing washed through my body like a tide.

  The tattooed man caught up with the servant, grabbed him by the collar of his tunic and dragged him down.

  The servant cried out only once, a piercing high-pitched sound like a rabbit makes when it is trapped in a snare.

  Through the dust I saw the servant on his back with his arms raised towards the blade which came down on him again and again.

  The man was lost in the rage of his killing and did not notice my approach until I stood almost beside him. Slowly, he raised his head and stared at me, eyes gone bleary with slaughter.

  I looked down at the servant, an old Greek named Demetrios. He had been a fisherman but was taken as a slave after a storm washed him and his lemon-yellow rowboat out to sea. He said he had drifted for twenty days, mad with thirst and sucking the dew from his clothes, before reaching the shores of the Black Sea. Now I barely recognised him.

  The tattooed man awoke from his frenzy. He bared his teeth and raised his sword to strike me but it clipped against a rock and the blade glanced off his knee, forcing his eyes closed with pain.

  I did not have time to be angry about the dead Greek, or afraid for myself, or aware of anything except the movement of Halfdan’s sword as I swung it up from my left side. Its own weight seemed to carry it forward. By the time the blade reached the man, it was moving so fast that I barely saw it connect with the flesh under his raised right arm, which held his own sword. The polished metal flowed through him as if it held no shape, no solidity. Like water. Like light. His sword flickered through the air. The arm which had held the sword spun in a slow arc, tracing a ragged circle of blood in the air, outstretched fingers turning at the centre of the wheel. When he tumbled to the ground, his body collapsing in upon itself, it gave the impression of two men struggling together inside one set of clothing. For a moment, his fingers twitched madly. Then they were still. The breath trailed from his lungs in one long heavy sigh. His silver armbands rolled down the slope, ringing like tiny bells as they bounced from rock to rock.

  In the silence that followed, I looked out across the valley. Far below, the fight had all but ended. The men who had blocked our way were falling back, dragging their wounded whose heels carved snakes in the dirt. The Varangian let them go. With wounded to care for, they would not come after us again. Already, our horses had returned of their own accord. They snorted and stamped among the still, dust-shrouded bodies.

  I heard a choking sigh and glanced up to see the Emperor, huddled in the shade of a boulder. Knowing that he was not badly hurt, and that it would be better for me not to see him this way, I turned and made my way down the slope until I reached the level ground.

  I set off to help Halfdan, but I was too late.

  He had been struck in the chest by one of the little toy arrows. When I found him, he was on his hands and knees, spitting bloody saliva at the ground. I knelt down next to him, and he patted his fingers against my face. ‘Is that you, Hakon?’ he asked. ‘I cannot see. Is there blood in my eyes?’ Halfdan dabbed his rough-padded fingertips against his cheeks, which showed no sign of any wound. ‘Why am I blind?’

  From the wheezy rattle in his voice, I knew Halfdan did not have long to live. But I could not imagine him dying. Only Halfdan could kill Halfdan, and even he did not know how.

  I tried to draw out the arrow, but it was too deep and sent him into a fit of coughing and wretching. His arms and legs trembled, fingers dug into the dirt.

  When I told him the arrow would not come out, he ordered me to push it through.

  I did what he asked and it killed him.

  Afterwards, seeing his lifeless body, I could not seem to get into my head the fact that his death had made me free. Now that freedom had arrived, I was afraid of it. In that moment, if I had been able, I would have returned to life the man who stole me from my home and would have given up my freedom once again.

  Instead, I began gathering stones for a grave.

  ‘You must not bury him like that,’ said a voice behind me.

  I turned to see Cabal. For the first time, I noticed that his eyes were the exact pale green of robin’s eggs.

  *

  Cabal was a strange man, even to the strangest among us. Tied to the metal ringlets of his chain-mail vest were old coins and beads and small animal bones, which he had collected for luck. As if to prove the worth of these talismans, he had never gotten sick or been hurt in all his years among the Varangian. There were many who believed he was untouchable.

  Cabal was said to be one of the last of a breed of Celts who had died out fighting the Romans. He seemed resigned to walk the earth as a shadow of his vanished tribe. He had left home to join the Varangian although in the five years it took him to reach Miklagard, he was not even certain they existed.

  Now Cabal belonged to the brotherhood, but in many ways he also stood apart. He earned himself a reputation for brutality in battle even among the Varangian, who were considered by the inhabitants of Miklagard to be savage almost beyond
comprehension. I had followed in the bloody path of Cabal’s horse, as the heads he had taken in battle lolled wide-eyed and filmed with dust, tied by their hair to the pommel of his saddle. They said Cabal preserved these heads in pots of cedar oil, which he buried in a secret place.

  When the fighting ended, Cabal would return to his old, gentle self, so unlike his other side that he seemed to be not one, but two people trapped inside a cage of flesh and bone. When asked why this was so, Cabal spoke of a thing called the Ail Gysgod, the Second Shadow, which the Celts had known and used in battle since long before his ancestors fought soldiers of the Roman Emperor Augustus. Arrayed before their enemies, the Celts had transformed themselves into a trancelike rage. The Romans saw the bodies of these men begin to ripple and shimmer, as if the boundaries of their skin had come undone and they were changing now into vast and terrifying creatures, which lived inside them and could be summoned with this pounding wordless chant.

  The things Cabal knew about what horrors lurked inside him, the rest of us had never dared to dream of in ourselves.

  ‘You must not bury him,’ Cabal said again.

  I knew the body should be burned instead, which was the Norse way, but there was barely enough wood to scorch a body here, let alone the great stacks of wood that it would take to turn him into ashes. As I looked at Halfdan’s corpse, it occurred to me that the funeral was no concern of his. It made no difference now to Halfdan. It would be my own conscience that judged my actions now.